


I Did It Looking There in the Mirror

by Lauralot



Series: I But A Shell of Myself [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood, Choking, Crying, Eating Disorders, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, HYDRA Trash Party, Implied/Referenced Torture, Internalized Victim Blaming, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Sexual Assault, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Hatred, Stabbing, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 11:55:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4018795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The message is on the back of the door in the last room Steve searches. The handwriting, labored and thick and hardly like Bucky’s, spells out one sentence:</p><p>
  <i>They didn’t use anesthesia when they cut off his arm.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Did It Looking There in the Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/1504.html?thread=2202336#cmt2202336) on the HYDRA Trash Meme: _The Winter Soldier wants to hurt Steve because [insert reason here], and discovers the best possible method; telling him everything they did to his stupid dead friend and laughing about it._

There’s no trace at the first HYDRA base Steve finds torn apart on arrival. Every hard drive is smashed, every file destroyed. There’s not one technician or agent left alive: bodies litter the floor, throats sliced or neatly shot. There are no footprints, not even a hair left behind.

Bucky tearing HYDRA to shreds isn’t unexpected. That he’s so methodical about it...Steve shakes the thought away. Finding Bucky is paramount. Healing the damage will have to come after. And having seen the scant information in the file Natasha dug up, well, Steve will never begrudge Bucky his revenge.

The second base is much the same, although this time, Steve turns his head and catches a flash of dark hair and pale eyes peering through a window. “Bucky!”

By the time he’s got the window open, his friend is long gone.

The notes don’t start until the third base.

Steve thoroughly, frantically, digs through every room. No one’s perfect, no matter what godawful training they’ve been forced through. No matter how many decades they’ve been used as a weapon. There has to be some sign, some little clue to lead him to his friend. Bucky wouldn’t have lingered around to glimpse him the last time if he didn’t need Steve’s help. If he didn’t _want_ to be found.

The message is on the back of the door in the last room Steve searches. It’s printed on a Post-It note, the weak glue barely sticking the page to the door. The handwriting, labored and thick and hardly like Bucky’s, spells out one sentence:

_They didn’t use anesthesia when they cut off his arm._

And for the first time since he saw his friend’s face behind that mask, Steve can’t stop himself from crying.

The next time, the message is scrawled on printer paper, left in a scanner.

_They put out their cigarettes on his tongue._

It carries on that way. A new base, a new horror. _The Secretary made him kiss his shoes. He woke up from cryostasis with tears frozen on his face. Sometimes they made him fetch their weapons with his mouth, like a dog._ Once the note is typed out on a computer, all other files wiped clean. Another time it’s in the label slot on a filing cabinet. And once Bucky even attempts cursive on what looks to be a little girl’s stationery sheet.

Steve keeps all the messages in a stack on his nightstand. He reads them again and again, his mind making elaborate and increasingly horrible simulations of the scenarios listed each time. He can’t make himself look away. Bucky is reaching out, trying to communicate, and Steve owes it to him to figure out what he means to convey.

It’s Steve’s fault, after all, that Bucky was ever in a position for HYDRA to abuse him like this.

Then one day, it isn’t a HYDRA base. Steve stops by the VA for a lunch date with Sam, and Sam hands him an envelope. White. No stamp. It’s not sealed; the back flap is just tucked in. And printed on the front, in the writing now seared into Steve’s mind, are two words: Steve Rogers.

“I found that in my employee mailbox,” Sam says, eyeing Steve curiously. He hasn’t mentioned the messages to Sam. It sounds so stupid, he knows—Sam’s experience could only help to decipher the thoughts and feelings behind Bucky’s letters—but it feels too intimate to share. Bucky’s not saying these things in person. Maybe he can’t bring himself to voice them.

There’s no letter inside the envelope. Instead, Bucky’s words are simply written on the inside of the flap. _He was considered mission capable until he lost forty percent or more of his blood._

And then Sam knows for sure that something’s up, because Steve can’t keep from crying into his shoulder.

The whole story comes out in the VA’s break room, Steve sputtering and stammering and crying into a cup of a tea. “I don’t know what he wants, Sam! Why he’s afraid to come to me. All I want to do is hold him and promise no one will ever hurt him again!”

Sam looks thoughtful, composed. He hasn’t touched his own mug. “It could be a lot of things. That kind of treatment...he may not even know why he’s doing it. But the messages—they all sound dissociated. ‘He was mission capable.’ ‘They cut off his arm.’ He’s distancing himself from what happened. He could be trying to separate himself from traumatic memories, treating it like a story. Or—” He breaks off, thinking.

“Or?” Steve prompts.

“He’s gotta be watching you, man. How else would he know to put a letter in my mailbox? HYDRA didn’t let him express feelings for decades. He might be giving these to you to see how he _should_ be responding.”

Steve flushes at that, cold racing through him despite the steaming mouthful of tea. He’s cried over some of the letters. Another time, he punched through a wall. Has he been telling Bucky these things are shameful? Has he made him feel rejected? “I have to find him.”

“There’s another possibility,” Sam says softly. “We don’t know how much he’s worked out about the world, Steve. About you. For all he could know, you were up and conscious while he was suffering. He might be telling you this because he’s angry. Because he wants you to feel guilt.”

“I don’t care if he’s furious, Sam. I just want him back.”

The next week, Steve returns home after a run to find that the Jehovah’s Witnesses have left a copy of _The Watchtower_ in front of his door. He picks up the magazine and a subscription card slides out. The handwriting over the order details is familiar.

_They made him lap up the mess when he pissed himself in the chair._

Steve grits his teeth so hard he’s amazed they don’t crack. He doesn’t let any pain show on his face as he speaks to the empty air around him. “Buck, if you want to talk, I’m here.”

There’s only silence in reply.

On the fourth of July, there’s a white envelope in Steve’s own mailbox. No stamp, no return address. Inside is a birthday card. There’s a white dog and a yellow bird on the front, and Steve skips over their cutesy message to find what Bucky’s written inside.

_He fought them until he learned about the Valkyrie crash. Then he begged them to wipe his memories._

Below that, there’s a smiley face.

Steve locks himself in the bathroom and cries silently in the shower. The water’s been running cold for well over an hour before he shuts it off.

*

For three months after Steve’s birthday, there’s dead silence. No letters. No cards. No HYDRA bases picked clean of people and resources. Steve takes to speaking aloud when he’s alone—little things like “You’re my best friend, Bucky” and “I’ll always be here for you”—but there’s never any answer.

And then Steve’s in New York.

It’s not an Avengers’ mission, just a friendly visit. “I’ve finally got the time to start putting together a new art collection,” Pepper had said over the phone. “Tony gave the last one away to the Boy Scouts, and then I became CEO and things were so hectic—”

“Why would he do that?” Steve had asked, sorting through his mail. Nothing from Bucky, so nothing important.

Pepper sighed. “It’s a long story. Anyway, I’d love your input, and Tony’s going stir crazy while Bruce is out of town. I think he might explode if he doesn’t have someone around to marvel at his inventions. How would you feel about a long weekend?”

He’d nearly said no. What if Bucky needed him and he wasn’t there? But Sam and Nat both had expressed concern for the amount of time Steve spent at home, waiting for any sign of his missing friend. Besides, if Bucky could freely travel to HYDRA bases, surely he could follow Steve to New York. “That sounds great, Pepper. Thank you.”

On Sunday morning, the second to last day of his visit, when Steve’s dressing after a shower in the suite Tony set up for him, JARVIS informs him that he has an incoming call.

Steve freezes midway through tugging a shirt over his head, hardly daring to hope. “Who’s calling?”

**NO NAME WAS GIVEN TO THE RECEPTIONIST, CAPTAIN ROGERS.**

“I’ll take it, JARVIS.”

He can hear the phone line connect. At first there’s only silence. Then a faint giggle.

“Bucky?” Steve asks. “Bucky, where are—”

The giggling again. And then a voice he’d know anywhere, a voice that’s been plaguing his nightmares for months. “He used to tell Zola you’d save him.” Bucky’s voice is light, amused, the way he used to sound sharing a joke he’d heard at work. Steve feels like he’s been shot in the gut all over again.

“Bucky.” He keeps his voice level though his hands are trembling. “I want to help you. You don’t have to be frightened or ashamed, just tell me—"

“He told _everyone._ ” Bucky’s voice breaks on the last word, dissolving into stifled laughter. “Used to scream himself hoarse. Steve was coming for him. Steve would save him and tear them all apart. Little idiot never learned.”

“I’m sorry, Bucky. I should have been there for you. I should have—” The words stick in his throat, his mouth bone dry.

“That’s why he didn’t think it was a trick when they told him you were dead,” Bucky continues cheerfully. “If you were alive, of _course_ you’d have rescued him by then. You wouldn’t leave him.”

“Bucky—”

There’s only giggling, then silence. But no click, no dial tone. Bucky hasn’t hung up, just wandered away from the phone.

“JARVIS.” Steve’s voice is low, almost a whisper.

 **THE CALL IS COMING FROM THE HILTON TIMES SQUARE HOTEL,** JARVIS responds just as quietly. He’s even able to trace the call down to the room number.

Steve flies to the elevator, not bothering to inform Tony or Pepper of his sudden departure. JARVIS can handle that if they ask. He charges through the streets on his bike, ignoring traffic laws and stoplights, giving only the faintest regard for pedestrians.

There’s a Do Not Disturb sign hanging from the door handle to Bucky’s hotel room, but the door itself is ajar. Holding his breath, trying to stomp down the hope blooming in his chest, Steve pushes the door fully open.

Bucky’s sitting on the hotel bed.

He’s got on his combat boots, but beyond that, his clothing is civilian: jeans, a partially zipped hoodie, a shirt with some stylized logo Steve thinks belongs to a band. He has motorcycle gloves on either hand, concealing his fingers, and his hair is pulled back in a low, messy ponytail. He’s lost weight, the angles of his cheekbones a little sharper.

Steve stands frozen in the doorway. He’s physically _aching_ with the need to pull Bucky into a hug, the desire to wrap him in the blankets and feed him soup from the room service. He needs to hold him, feel him, promise that he’ll never let go again.

But he’s sure that Bucky’s angry. Why else would he add a smiley face to the birthday card detailing his torture to Steve? Even if that anger’s abated in these last few months, Bucky’s unstable. Easily spooked.

So Steve just stands, smiling as though it isn’t killing him to stay still, and waits for Bucky to make the first move.

The phone at the bedside is hanging off the hook, just brushing the carpet. There’s a faint drone coming from the receiver, and absently Steve wonders who ended the call: Bucky or JARVIS.

Bucky stares at him, tensed. Some of the hair loose from his ponytail hangs down in his face like a failed shroud. He seems about to bolt. But instead, he speaks.

“Ain’t you ever heard of knocking, punk?”

And just like that, Steve’s smile is no longer forced for Bucky’s benefit. “Never claimed to have class.”

Bucky’s awkward when he stands up, like a teen in a growth spurt who hasn’t yet got the hang of his legs. His own smile is strained. But he holds his arms open, fingers twitching as if to beckon Steve in. “C’mon, Stevie. Think I’d still be here if I didn’t wanna see you?”

To hold Bucky, to hear him speak with fondness after the bitterness dripping from his letters, is like a taste of fresh water at sea. Steve hugs him tight, taking in the scent of him: hotel shampoo and coffee and new clothing. He clings to Bucky like a lifeline, feeling his spine too easily through his clothing, burying his face against Bucky’s shoulder, mumbling a string of incoherent promises to never let him go again.

“I was mad,” Bucky whispers. “At you, at everybody. I went to those bases and the files I found—the things they did to him—”

Steve’s chest aches. Bucky can’t accept that he was that tortured captive. And Steve wishes to God that his denial was true. “No one’s ever gonna hurt you again, Buck. You’re safe with me. I’ll take care of you this time, I promise.”

“They couldn’t use regular sedatives on him in the tests,” Bucky goes on. His voice cracks and he’s shifting, squirming a little in Steve’s grip. Steve isn’t sure if he’s hearing anything around him. “Couldn’t use normal tranq darts if he misbehaved in the field.”

“You’re safe, Bucky.” Steve rubs his hand across his friend’s shoulders, refusing to wince at the sensation of metal beneath the jacket. “You’re free now. Forever.”

“They had to tailor chemicals just for his metabolism,” Bucky says, choked and tight. “Had to make stuff like this.”

There’s a sharp prick to Steve’s throat.

Bucky shoves him back and Steve trips, finding himself sitting on the floor. His fingers, frantic and searching, grab hold of a tranquilizer dart stuck in his neck. “Buck—”

Bucky’s tight and twitching smile grows. He steps around Steve, locking the door. He’s giggling, just as light and pleasant as he’d sounded on the phone. “They kept those at some bases too, the darts. Swiped them along with the records.”

Steve’s head is already swimming. He tries to stand, but his limbs won’t respond. “Whatever happened to you, I can _help_ —”

Settling onto the bed, Bucky smirks, letting his hair down. “We’re going to have so much fun.”

*

“They’re not all compounds, you know,” Bucky says.

Steve’s aware of light and prickling. His hands, bound and held up over his head, are numb; the sensation of pins and needles floods through his stiff arms as he tries to move his wrists. His toes barely touch the floor, and when he tries to shift his balance, pain flares through his shoulders. His eyes open, vision swimming. Bucky lies on the floor, knees bent, tossing a knife up and down. Whatever drug he put in Steve’s system must still be circulating, because Steve sees four of him.

“Some of ‘em have to be, for weapons testing, human guinea pigs, stuff like that,” Bucky continues. No, there aren’t four of him; he’s reflected on three sides. The walls are made of mirrors. “But there are smaller HYDRA properties. Less conspicuous. Banks, doctor’s offices...once I think I got patched up after a bad mission behind the counter of an ice cream shop.” Shaking his head, he stops throwing the knife. “What’d they need with an ice cream shop?” 

“Bucky,” Steve says. His voice is hoarse, his head pounding.

Bucky smiles at him as he sits up. He’s back in his black combat gear, twirling the knife around his fingers. “’Course, I don’t know what HYDRA used a dance studio for either.” He waves his free hand. “I like it, though. Reminds me of the girls back home.”

Steve just stares at him. At least, what he _thinks_ is him, and not one of the reflections. Bucky never dated a ballet dancer, for all the girls he took out. Not that Steve remembers. And this is a ballet studio; he can tell by the _barre_ around the mirrored walls. They’re in a ballet studio. There are no windows for Steve to use to gauge the time. The cord that binds his wrists is tied to a support beam bolted to the ceiling.

“Is that why we’re here?” Steve asks. He keeps his voice level, trying to swallow down the rasp in it. If he’s not calm, there’s no chance Bucky will be. “Because you like it?” 

“He came here once.” Bucky gets to his feet, nodding his head in Steve’s direction. “They stood him right where you are.” 

And bound him by the wrists too, Steve’s sure. God. It’s horrible enough _reading_ Bucky’s memories. To hang here and have to listen to him recount another, to sway helplessly while Bucky could try to _reenact_ his trauma—how can Steve keep from crying at everything HYDRA’s done to him? How could anyone? 

_Listen to yourself,_ he thinks, his own thoughts harsher than Bucky’s words could ever be. _He had to live through this. He had to hang here and take whatever torture they doled out because you let him fall . The least you can do is listen to him. You’ll survive feeling a fraction of his pain._

“Do you want to tell me about it, Bucky?”

Bucky laughs. He walks to one of the mirrors, resting his prosthetic hand flat against it. “You always cry when you hear about him. I’ve seen you.” 

Steve bites his lip. “Not every time.” 

“You want to,” Bucky says, still staring at the glass. “Your face always says so.” 

“Bucky. Sweetheart.” There are millions of apologies and promises bubbling within him, flooding his throat, and his lungs burn as if he’s drowning when he tries to force them into a coherent, measured stream. “When I cry—when the things that were done to you make me sad—that doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear them. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you. I’m not upset with _you_ , Bucky. I’m sad that you were hurt. Nothing they did was your fault, and I never want you to feel like you have to hide it.” 

“I like it when you cry,” Bucky says, turning to face him. He’s grinning like a cat in the cream. “You let him fall and then you’re so surprised that it hurt. And you look stupid when your face gets all red. It’s funny.” 

“I’m sorry.” Steve’s voice is choked now, weak, any words of comfort he’d planned drying up. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me.” 

“That’s the nice thing about mirrors.” Bucky taps his mental fingers against the glass. “You get to see every last stupid moment. Look, your eyes are already going all pink.” 

Steve looks, hardly seeing himself. He should struggle with his bindings, he knows, free himself and get Bucky _help_. But he deserves this. And Bucky, whatever his feelings, deserves to have someone listen. 

“Bucky,” he says. “If you want to tell me about this room—about anything you’re remembering or feeling—I’ll listen to you, honey.” 

Bucky chuckles, turning away. He walks to the mirrors on the far wall from Steve and stands before those, hand on the _barre_ , tilting his head. “There was this agent—this woman—on a tac-team of mine. I think she had blonde hair, but it got dark at her scalp. She would fill her canteens with juice, this cranberry juice, instead of water. And I never saw her eat. She told another agent once that she was cleaning out her body. Cleansing, she called it.”

Steve waits in silence, watching his friend lean forward to fog the mirror with his breath. 

“Our CO said she was an idiot, sapping her energy and putting us all at risk. She said if he tried it, he’d understand. It purged all the toxins from her body and she’d never felt better than once they were flushed out.” 

“What happened to her?” Steve asks, and Bucky whirls around, scowling, as though he’d forgotten Steve was there. 

“I don’t know,” he snaps. “Did you forget about the chair that easily? After it made you whimper and sniffle for _hours_ like a sickly infant?” 

“Is that why you wrote the letters, Buck? You wanted to purge your bad memories? I can help you. I have a friend who—”

“You’re so stupid!” Bucky shouts. For a moment he stands there, chest heaving, the look in his eyes purely murderous. “You don’t get it. You can’t even differentiate—” Then he breaks off, laughing. It doesn’t sounds forced. Maybe it is natural. Maybe so many years of being told not to feel has leeched him of the ability to control his emotions. “You don’t get it,” he repeats finally, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.

“I want to understand.” Steve won’t let his eyes fall to the knife Bucky’s been toying with all throughout the conversation. He won’t let Bucky think that he has any less than Steve’s full attention, full sympathy, unconditional love. “Please, if you’ll help me understand...” 

“There was a mission,” Bucky says. The tension melts off of him, shoulders slumping, smile placid. If not for the knife, he’d look downright docile. “It must have been around here. I don’t know what it was. That wasn’t mine to keep. But he fucked it up, and that stuck up here.” He taps his forehead. “He used to do that a lot, fuck up the easiest jobs.” 

“That’s because you’re not a killer, sweetheart. Whatever they forced you to do, you’re a good man. You’re my best friend.” 

“I think he did it on purpose,” Bucky continues. “I think he liked getting punished. Otherwise, nobody talked to him except to give orders. Nobody touched him unless they were taking his vitals. He liked getting hit, didn’t you used to say?” 

“You’ve got it a little mixed up.” Steve’s own smile is forced and watery. Bucky looks so _content_ as he relates the horrors of his past, like he’s just slipped into a warm bath. “You told me that I liked getting punched. You were always saving me, Buck. Just like you did in the Potomac. And once you untie me, I’ll hug you and I’ll never let go until you want me to, okay?” 

“So they brought him—”

There’s an electronic beep suddenly, echoing throughout the room. Steve’s phone. A text.

Tony. JARVIS will have told him what happened by now. And surely he can trace Steve’s location through his phone. Whatever Bucky’s planning, they’ll have company soon. 

Steve can only hope that Bucky can’t slip away from Iron Man as easily as he has from Captain America. 

Bucky slides the knife into its sheath, pulling Steve’s phone from his pocket. He begins tapping away at the screen with his flesh fingers.

Steve feels his stomach sink. “When did you get that, Bucky?”

“You gave it to me at the hotel. You were very generous.” Bucky flashes him a smile that’s so painfully, wonderfully close to the way he used to look in Brooklyn. “Told me the passcode too. You said a lot of funny stuff. The tranqs are entertaining that way.” 

“Who’s texting me?”

“Stark. We knew his father, remember? Howard? He made funny faces too, when I shot him. He wants to know how things are going. You told him you tracked me down and we’re catching up, earlier. Well, I told him for you. You were asleep. Said it was all real delicate and we couldn’t have any interruptions.” 

Steve nods. His face is a perfectly blank slate. He knows that because he can see it in his reflection. “Can I talk to him, honey?”

“So the handler brought him back here.” Bucky speaks as though he never stopped, replacing the phone in his pocket and drawing his knife. “Strung him up, just like you. That handler’s eyes were strange. The handler was always looking at him on the missions, some kind of calculating that he couldn’t understand. Your friend was an idiot, you know that? Couldn’t even recognize lust. Like he didn’t roll in the sheets with you every night.” 

The phone chimes again in Bucky’s pocket, in time with the loud crack Steve swears he can feel reverberate through his chest. “Buck, we weren’t—”

“He was hanging just like you.” For the first time since Steve woke, Bucky advances toward him. He puts the metal hand at the center of Steve’s chest, lightly pushing on his sternum. Steve sways, his shoes sliding uselessly against the wood floor. The pain through his shoulders is immense. “He’s shorter than you, but the rope was about the same length, so he didn’t touch the ground at all. Like a piñata with a dislocated shoulder.” 

“He was wrong to do that to you. And if he’s still alive, I’ll make him feel every bit of pain he put you through and then some, I swear.”

Bucky’s scowling now, though his voice is light as spun sugar. “’You’re such a disappointment,’ the handler said. ‘I’d thought you were much more than a pretty face,’ he said. But then he took his hands and he put them there—” Here Bucky taps the point of his blade against Steve’s fly. “And then said, ‘At least you’re still good for that.’” 

Steve had known where this story was heading. Knowing doesn’t reduce the flush of cold that runs through him as Bucky speaks, doesn’t alleviate the waves of sympathy and horror threatening to pull him under. “Bucky. Sweetheart. What he did to you was wrong. No one has a right to touch you that way. Not as a punishment and not ever, unless you say it’s okay first. I won’t let anybody use you that way again, Bucky. You’re safe now. You’re safe with me.” 

“He liked it,” Bucky muses, tracing the knife up and down Steve’s zipper. There’s no pain; Bucky isn’t applying any force. The scrape of metal on metal seems almost deafening. “He liked the way it felt.”

“You didn’t ask to be touched.” Steve’s voice is forced now, the way he used to speak when selling war bonds or talking with the press. He hates to sound that way now, to try and manipulate Bucky’s views, even though he’s telling the truth. Bucky’s spent a lifetime being swayed to follow others’ beliefs. It feels like Steve’s just another user, even knowing the situations couldn’t be more different. “Even if you had, you couldn’t consent, not with what they’d done to your mind. You can’t help how your body responds to being touched, honey. That doesn’t mean you asked for it. It means someone took advantage of you when they knew you couldn’t fight back.”

“He made the stupidest faces when it felt nice. He tried to swing himself into his handler’s touch as much as he could.” Bucky rests his free hand on the small of Steve’s back, ever so gently pushing him forward. There’s a little pinprick of pain as the knife just presses in. “It hurt his arms and back so badly, but he didn’t care. I think he might have liked that too, the mix. He was afraid when nothing hurt—he didn’t know what to expect. And he felt so tense and so good and like he’d go into a million pieces that no one could put back together, that would melt all contented into the floorboards. And then the handler stopped touching him.” 

Bucky steps back. His eyes linger on Steve’s face, searching, and when he averts his gaze, he seems disappointed. “And the handler said, ‘Like you’ve fucking earned it.’ And he just hung there, gaping and wheezing like a dying fish. And the handler said, ‘If you want to be fucked so bad, you can make do with this.’ And he put his knife right there.” 

This time, Bucky sticks the blade’s tip barely between two of Steve’s ribs. Steve bites his tongue to hold in the yelp. “He twisted it around. I think he might have put his fingers in there too.” His lips are twitching like a swatted insect in its death throes as he smiles at Steve. 

“Buck.” His eyes are hot, wet, and he makes no attempt to keep the tears from spilling. “If you want to be sad, you can be sad. It’s okay. No one will punish you.” 

And Bucky growls. Growls like an animal and clamps his steel fingers onto Steve’s throat. “ _You’re ruining it._ ” 

“Ruining what?” he gasps. 

Bucky shoves him full force, hand jamming against Steve’s windpipe. He can’t breathe, unsure if that’s from the pain or the choking, or if Bucky’s managed to dislocate his larynx. “He wasn’t even good enough to be their sex toy! He’d have done anything for a friendly touch and he wasn’t worth that!” 

Steve can’t answer, still gasping for air. Between the agony radiating from his throat and the stiff, horrible prickling in his arms, Steve can’t be sure if all the jostling has managed to dislocate his shoulders. Certainly there’s enough pain. 

“He used to cry for you in the night! He told himself he wouldn’t break but it was only a few days and he was sobbing for you every time they even brought their tools near him. Once all his thrashing broke a glass and he managed to conceal a shard of it. He was going to slit his throat when he was alone! He held the glass there. He could feel his pulse through it. But he was so sure you’d save him. He couldn’t kill himself and leave you empty-handed when you arrived. So he threw the glass away, and that’s when they told him about your plane crash.” 

Steve manages to still himself, regaining his tenuous balance. He thinks he’s getting in air. But Bucky’s words are like a punch to the gut, and he can’t be sure. 

“Look at you!” Bucky shouts. His cheeks are going red, his metal hand clenched in a fist. “You’re crying!” 

Steve is. Some of it’s from the pain, but only some. 

“I’m hurting you! That’s what I’m for: I hurt things! I’m not your Bucky Barnes. I’m what rose up when they burned his mind to cinders. I’m hurting you. So _stop_ with your false sympathy. Stop saying it doesn’t matter. Get _angry_.”

“I won’t,” Steve manages. The words are like sandpaper scraping out of his throat. “I’ll—never be angry with you, Bucky.” 

“In Russia they made him sleep alongside their cattle! That’s what he was worth.” Bucky’s pacing now, agitated, mental fingers winding through his hair. 

“They were wrong. You mean the world to me.” 

Bucky’s growling again, grinding his teeth. “At the training base they made him kill a little girl. They promised him an apple if he did it. He hadn’t seen fresh fruit in months and he shot through her eye without any hesitation. He ate the core and seeds and all.” 

“Honey,” Steve says, tears dripping from his face. “It wasn’t your fault. You have to understand that.” 

When Bucky rips his hand away from his hair, Steve can see the strands caught between the metal joints, yanked out of his scalp. “They made him lick the blood off their boots if he got messy when he slaughtered people.” 

“Bucky,” Steve says. He swallows, and it’s like fire racing down his throat. “Sweetheart. I don’t care. I don’t care what they made you do. I don’t care what they did to you. You’re my best friend, Buck. I love you. And if you want to tell me about these things, if it makes you feel better to say them to somebody, that’s okay. I’ll listen. But I will never, ever hate you. I will never love you any less.” 

Wordlessly, Bucky shouts. He rushes forward, grabbing the collar of Steve’s shirt and shaking him. The room becomes a blur; the only constants are the pain and Bucky’s screaming. “They didn’t use anesthesia when they cut off his arm! They made him crawl on all fours like a dog when he pissed them off! They put out their cigarettes on my tongue—they—I—”

And he falls silent, trembling. Steve comes to a stop against Bucky’s shaking hand, still gripping his shirt front. His shoulders are definitely dislocated. Bucky’s crying, pale, his gaze darting everywhere but Steve’s face. 

“Honey,” Steve says. His voice is raw, rasping, but Bucky must hear something in it because he raises his head, though he looks away just as quickly. “I love you. I want to help you. Let me help you. Sweetheart, you don’t have to go through this alone.” 

“I don’t want your help,” Bucky whispers. 

“I don’t think that’s true. I think you’re afraid to ask. Buck, you don’t have to be afraid, not ever again.” 

“All I do is hurt you,” Bucky says. He meet Steve’s gaze again, tilts his chin up, as if daring him to say otherwise. 

And Steve does. “You’ve never hurt me.” 

Bucky laughs, but now there’s nothing genuine to it. “I shot you.” 

“You didn’t know what you were doing.” 

“I hate you,” Bucky hisses, but the words are as hollow as the chocolate rabbits they used to get in their Easter baskets. 

“I don’t think so.” Steve smiles. “But even if you do, sweetheart, that’s okay.” 

And suddenly Bucky’s arms are wrapped around Steve’s body, his face buried against Steve’s chest. And it hurts like hell, but it’s the best Steve’s felt in ages. “I hate you,” he says, his breath warm and frantic against Steve’s shirt. “I hate you so much.” 

“I love you, Bucky. You’re my best friend. ‘Till the end of the line, remember?” 

“Don’t say that!” Bucky’s shaking so hard. “I hate that, stop fucking with my head!” 

“I’m just treating you like a person. Like my _friend_. The way everyone should have treated you.” 

Bucky sniffs. “I can’t be that person anymore.” 

“You don’t have to be. I only want you to be happy and safe.” 

Bucky doesn’t answer, clinging tighter. 

“Come home with me, Bucky,” Steve pleads. “I’ll help you sort things out, I promise. You don’t even have to stay. But let me get you back on your feet. It’s the very least that I can do.” 

Bucky shakes his head, mussing his hair against Steve’s shirt front. “I can’t.” 

“Sweetheart—”

There’s pain. The pain is blinding. The pain consumes the whole world. 

Then something warm is splattering down on Steve’s hair, trickling down his wrist. He cranes his neck. Bucky’s knife is impaled through his left hand, the blade poking through his palm at a downward angle, nearly pricking his opposite wrist. 

“Here,” Bucky says, and he’s got Steve’s phone, shoving it into Steve’s pocket. “You can cut yourself free. Your friends will help you.” And he’s hugging Steve again before Steve can speak through his shock. “You’ll be all right.”

“Buck,” Steve manages, as Bucky’s turning for the door. “Honey, please, stay with me—”

“I had dreams about you sometimes in cryostasis.” Bucky pauses, meeting Steve’s eyes over his shoulder. “I didn’t know it was you, but it was. They were nice. Cryostasis was my favorite place, because sometimes the dreams weren’t bloody and loud. I hope I have those dreams again.” 

There’s no malice to his voice as he speaks, but as he watches Bucky leave, Steve thinks those are the words that cut the deepest of all. 

**Author's Note:**

> This story is named for the [Pauline Barrett](http://www.bartleby.com/84/87.html) monologue in the _Spoon River Anthology_ by Edgar Lee Masters:
> 
> _...And I looked in the mirror and something said_   
>  _"One should be all dead when one is half-dead—"_   
>  _Nor ever mock life, nor ever cheat love."_   
>  _And I did it looking there in the mirror—_   
>  _Dear, have you ever understood?_


End file.
